I'm just going to skip over the part where I talk about how busy I've been and just get to the actual fic part. Some time has passed. It's about late January of the new year now.

In Oregon, time didn't pass the same way that it had done back home in the East. People went about building their cabins and staking out land for farming the following spring. Several couples got married – Kimball and Summer among the first in the week after Teresa had arrived at the settlement, and Pete and Grace wed around Christmas. Wayne, taking a different path, hired himself out to Barlow the instant that his mother had a roof over her head and his sister was safely in her shed with Pete. Teresa went longer periods of time without seeing him than doing so, but her two daughters – by blood and by marriage – were around all the time, and she contented herself with conversing with them. Summer had never been particularly good at sewing, so Teresa and Grace helped her let out her dresses as her stomach grew, and Pete was just as welcome an addition to the family as Summer. He made her laugh. That had been missing from her life for so long.

As well as spending time with Kimball, Grace, Summer, Pete, and Wayne when he had time, Anton Jedorn sought her out on several occasions. After their discussion by the fire upon her arrival to the settlement, Teresa's children had stopped teasing her about the attentions of the Englishmen. The rest of the settlers hadn't let up nearly as much; she was a single woman in the middle of this wild territory, and he was an eligible man of suitable age. People married for less than that. But no matter how much he complimented her looks and mettle, and no matter how many times she caught his eyes flickering between her own eyes and her lips, she never felt anything. She loved Patrick Jane, and though she couldn't forgive him for seemingly forgetting that she had children, she couldn't make herself fall for Anton Jedorn.

Of course, if she'd married him, it would make the people stop talking. Those who weren't grinning at her whenever she was in Anton's presence were whispering about her foolish congress with the ex fake psychic.

Any thoughts Teresa had of marrying Anton simply to get people to stop talking were shut away permanently when he kissed her. She hadn't been giving him any signals; they'd been talking about mosquitoes and he'd leaned in and put his mouth on hers at the same time he put his hands on her sides, resting on her hip bones. She'd backed away violently, cussing at him and telling him to leave her alone, and he'd given her an odd look. It wasn't so much hurt, and it wasn't so much surprise, but the look that he had on his face seemed almost knowing. It was the look of a man who had to try, to get his answer, and now that he had it, he was processing it. It startled Teresa had how easily she was able to read his expression. Walter and Patrick had never been like that…or maybe it was living with them for so long that made Anton easy to read.

"I'm sorry," she told him, shaking her head. "I've spent my entire life wondering if I've married the right men for the wrong reasons or the wrong men for the right reasons. Anything with you would be for the wrong reasons."

He looked at her for a long moment, and then slowly nodded. "Fair enough." He gave a shallow bow and backed away, heading toward his cabin. Teresa turned and ran toward hers.

Summer was standing inside, her hands on her hips, staring at the back of the room. "Summer?" Teresa asked. "What's wrong?"

"I came in here for a pot," Summer said. "And then I heard a noise. A noise coming from the woods. That way," she said, as if Teresa needed further direction. There was only one window in the cabin and it showed the woods. Teresa stepped next to the heavily pregnant blonde and looked out. She couldn't see anything.

Patrick Jane stumbled forward, the shooting pain going from his foot to his skull in what seemed like less than a split second. His stumble, combined with the downward slope of the earth, caused him to pitch forward, somersaulting down the hill and landing with his legs almost straight up in the air against a tall rock. He stared up at the sky, waiting for his ears to stop ringing, and hoping that his leg wasn't much worse. He wasn't sure how much it could take.

After a few moments, he slowly pulled himself to his feet, limping forward again, and stopped when he reached a pool of water, drawing it to his mouth with his hands. He didn't put any on his shirt. He'd tried without success to get Lorelei's blood off of it a good two weeks back; even the snow wouldn't do anything but stain while his shirt remained a smeared red.

Red, he thought. Red. That is all I am. It's all I have become.

Red John Bandit had taken Angela and Charlotte from him in a pool of red. He'd lost Julia the same way. Teresa had been seeing red when she'd left him at Henry Deed's homestead. Amos and those two girls had departed this world covered in it. And now, Patrick Jane's shirt was stained with the red of Lorelei's blood, his foot was reddish and swollen, and he'd bet if his eye wasn't swollen shut, it would be red, too. It seemed as if blood was forcing itself into his life; there was no escape, there was no part of his life that didn't involve blood.

"Except for Kimball and Wayne and Grace," his oldest daughter said, appearing next to him. She had no limp. He could see her as if he had two good eyes. "They're not your blood."

"No," he said, gimping forward. "No, they're not. But we both know how well that worked out."

"You know in Pride and Prejudice there was a point when Elizabeth had thought she'd failed too badly for it to be made right."

"You never read Pride and Prejudice," Jane said.

"No," Charlotte agreed. "But I'm also in your subconscious, and you've heard Grace talk about it. There's gotta be some part of you that believes that you can still get Red John and repair your relationship with the Mashburns. Or else you wouldn't have me say all of this to you."

Jane stopped and put his hands on his knees, panting. He'd traveled a long way, on foot and without a map, and he'd been dragged half dead out of the Columbia not a week ago. If not for the meal and blanket he'd been offered by the family who'd pulled him from the river, he had no doubt he'd be dead now. As it was, he felt dead. It'd been months since he'd seen Teresa, four weeks since Amos and the women had been killed, three weeks since Lorelei had been gunned down in a showdown with who Jane was positive had been Red John himself, and about five weeks since Jane had felt truly in control of his own person. He was spiraling out of control, and he knew it. He needed something familiar, and he needed it to be soon, or he was going to break down. Even now, with Red John close, he couldn't even imagine feeling okay again.